


Lightkeeper

by Wheely_Jessi



Series: Song Shots [1]
Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Angsty Introspection, F/F, Friend loss, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Love, Multi, Sadness, Series 7, Spoilers, Survivor Guilt, all of the feels, bereavement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 11:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13879590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wheely_Jessi/pseuds/Wheely_Jessi
Summary: *Major Series/Season 7 Spoilers (in case anyone is still unaware of recent developments)*Having been waiting for news of Barbara from Nonnatus, now that she has it, Patsy sits in their hotel room and tries to work herself up to telling Delia.





	Lightkeeper

**Author's Note:**

> Briefly coming out of hiding to post this.
> 
> Written in one go and unbeta'd because I had lots of feelings about Patsy not being there...and what yet another loss would mean for her. (Hopefully understandably, I get very affected when people lose friends, even fictional characters - especially ones I love as much as the Nonnatus ensemble. So I splurged all my sadness here.)
> 
> I listened to one of my go-to grief tracks, Bo Bruce's 'Lightkeeper' as I wrote, hence the title. If you'd like to listen too, it's here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mc5HR3USDn8

Patsy sat stock-still on the side of one of the immaculately-made beds in their hotel room. Well, it _had_ been immaculately-made. It wasn’t now (since she was sitting on it) and, ordinarily, she would have been bothered by the disarray. This morning, though (and actually for however long it was since Phyllis had been in contact with the initial news of Barbara, her sense of time having deserted her as swiftly as that first telegram had fluttered from her shaking fingers onto a bed just like this one in yet another twin room in yet another hotel in yet another country on yet another continent) she could not seem to muster… what?

Anything, really.

Energy.

Enthusiasm.

Essence.

She was just numb.

Feeling so little – and yet, so _much_ , too.

However many times this happened, however many more moments like this there were to be, she was certain she would never get used to the punishing paradox of waves of pain without any words to put them into. Especially now, when she was half a world away, and yet achingly conscious that neither her presence nor medical knowledge would have been even an ounce of help. Especially now, when she wasn’t alone with only her head and hurt to keep her company or pay her any heed. Especially now, when Delia would soon be back from her jaunt out for some fresh air, on which she had departed in despair after all her powers of persuasion proved entirely ineffective against Patsy’s insistence that she stay within shouting distance of the telephone in case the concierge called up. For, whilst _Phyllis_ had succeeded in persuading her that she had sat by more than her fair share of hospital beds (and, moreover, that Barbara roundly refused to let her – them – cut their holiday-which-was-really-a-honeymoon short), even their kindly curmudgeon of a colleague could not prevent her exercising her namesake virtue by mounting a patient vigil at (on) the side of _this_ bed.

Or on any of the however many others which had preceded it in the time between the telegrams.

Telegrams.

A painful plural she had to process, prior to (somehow) passing it on to her partner.

Because there was no need to wait, now. Not any longer.

Her worried little Welshwoman would likely think she had chosen the worst time for a walk, but Patsy was secretly pleased by the serendipity. She needed this moment to mull over what to say to her sweetheart. After all, they were both only too keenly aware of how lax she became about language when she was bereaved and bereft, and that was utterly unfair on her beloved brunette. Not least, this time, because her girlfriend would be grieving too.

Oh God.

Poor Deels.

She ought to have prepared her better.

She had never had this before and, whilst there was no doubt that death never got easier to deal with, experience did seem to inure one to the emotions of the initial impact. Wasn’t that precisely why Patsy herself felt so distant today? Not that Delia hadn’t _dealt_ with death, but it had always been in a professional context rather than a personal one. But then, Patsy thought briefly, this was also decidedly different for her. She had never lost a friend. Her family ( _all_ her family) might be gone, and even she could not deny that that woe felt the worst in the world. But Barbara – dearest, darling Babs – had been part of her _found_ family, and the closest thing she had had to a younger sister since…well, since Grace. Now she was gone, too, and it seemed that all of the usual strategies for grief had gone with her.

And, no matter how much the logical “Nurse Mount” tried to convince herself otherwise, she could not shift the crushing sense of guilt that she had not been there to say goodbye.

Because, somehow, seemingly without design, for all of Babs’ significant stages at Nonnatus, Patsy had been there too.

On that first night, when she had held back the younger woman’s hair.

The _traumatic_ night of the Bissette birth, when they had held _each other_ and cried – first for grief, then for joy.

Oh, how curiously closely those two apparent opposites seemed to be content to coexist, at least in her life. The relief of liberation, stemmed by her father’s rage, and her own anguish. Then, much later, the joy of the flat, swiftly followed by the devastation after Delia’s accident. Of course, more recently, all the mixed up muddle of emotions upon her return from Hong Kong.

And now Babs.

Beautiful, brilliant Babs – who, like her, had only ever wanted to help people. To be a force for good, and for _life_.

Was _nothing_ sacred!?

Of all the souls in the world, it had to be one of the purest, most innocent and unassuming individuals ever to have cycled the cobbles of Poplar, didn’t it?  

Of course it did.

And she hadn’t been there to see her off, just like she had missed her wedding, and now she would miss her funeral too.

Perhaps that was for the best, though – because, whilst the resilient redhead had (necessarily) come to terms with her _own_ mortality what felt like _aeons_ ago, other people’s was, and always would be, an entirely different matter. So she didn’t really trust herself to deal with this with dignity in front of their friends, particularly as her previous losses were still feeling agonisingly acute.

Oh, Babs.

Tom, too.

And Trixie.

And Phyllis.

It just wasn’t fair. On any of them.

She was so angry it hurt.

‘Pats?’

Pulled from her reverie by the soft sound of her favourite Welsh lilt, Patsy forced herself to focus again, and to push the protective part of her to the fore.

‘Deels –’ she began, locking eyes with her love, before gesturing pathetically at the message carelessly thrown down beside her. Then the two women threw _themselves_ at _each other_ , to comfort, to _cwtch_ – and to cry.

**Author's Note:**

> Babs deserved better. They all did.


End file.
